enough for a fall
by thedivinemove
Summary: She thinks of pushing him away – she will, of course, eventually – but there's still so much time till nightfall, and so much hatred in her – equally as much as hunger. He deserves to be hurt (and she can hurt him). - Lydia/Nogitsune!Stiles, Stydia, coda to 3x23


"I hate you," she says. Her fingers flex around the iron bars, the rusty metal burning into her skin.

"Good," he breathes, dangerously close to her ear. "It makes it all so much more __fun__."

There is no way of knowing how much time has passed, or how much time's left until nightfall; the only thing she's sure of is that they will come, and that the kill him. The thought gives her the strangest, vilest kind of relief; enough reassurance to stop her from screaming when she feels his touch on her skin.

He presses his nose to her temple, then slides it down, until he reaches her pulse point. Beneath his warm breath goosebumps rise on her skin.

Aware of the rapid beat of her heart, Lydia turns around. With her back pressed to the bars, he's still disconcertingly too close for comfort, but at least now she can see him – can see every twitch of his muscle, every flicker of emotion on his stolen face.

His eyes are dark.

Lydia wets her mouth.

"I hope you're not trying to intimidate me," she says tartly.

The corners of his mouth twitch, just barely, and he rises his eyebrows. She gestures to the small space between their bodies in exasperation. "This," she says, condescension dripping from her voice like venom, "is __my__ weapon. Or it would be, if there was anything even remotely human about you."

There is a deafening silence between them, and she counts her breaths – against her will they are coming too fast, erratic and shallow. Then his hand – Stiles's hand – reaches out and tangles in her hair. His fingers curl around what was once a perfectly styled lock and he pulls at it roughly, bringing her whole body closer to his. Lydia releases a sharp breath.

"I assure you," he says, pressing his teeth to her ear, "you'll find me human enough."

This is the moment when she is supposed to scream, (and cry, and kick, and run, run, run), but nothing comes. Instead, her heart picks up pace and she can feel it somewhere in her throat, thrashing like a caged butterfly.

Instead, familiar warmth pools low in her stomach.

(There is no justification for that, even though her brain is running at a hundred-thousand miles a second trying to find one. She may swear to the heavens that she's done with the villains of her stories – but somehow, they always end exactly the same.)

She thinks of pushing him away – she will, of course, eventually – but there's still so much time till nightfall, and so much hatred in her – equally as much as hunger. He deserves to be hurt, and __she__ can hurt him. And she will.

(She wants to see him writhe in pain.

She wants to feel his moans against her skin.)

Lydia raises her hand, fingers splayed, and cups his cheek. It's rough, unshaven, so deceptively human. Her fingers slip lower, down his neck, trace the faint scars left by letharia vulpina. She scrapes her nails across the marred skin, presses them deeper, harder, until she draws blood.

He pushes her back against the concrete wall, and the hand in her hair tugs hard, pulling her head up. She hits the wall, and for one excruciating moment black spots dance before her vision. "Don't be coy," he purrs, "it doesn't suit you."

She keeps her back straight, feels the cold of the wall seep through her dress. She raises her chin, daring him, eyes blazing with unbridled fury. She's already wet, and that alone makes her want to tear him apart.

And when he kisses her, she kisses him back. (After all, she's always had terrible judgment.)

It's more bite than kiss, all anger and hatred and burning urgency; her hands curl around his neck, pulling him closer, her teeth scraping at his lower lip. He's biting back, bruising, grinding her lips against her teeth as he forces his tongue into her mouth. There is a coppery taste of blood on her tongue.

He disentangles his hands from her hair and slips them down, digging marks into her hips. He pushes his leg between her thighs and Lydia grinds at it, ravenous. She makes noises against his lips, their teeth clicking together. It's so confusing – the roughness, the brutality of his touch – the exact opposite of what she'd imagined Stiles's touch would feel like; she'd imagined his long, gentle fingers caressing her skin, kissing her everywhere, dedicated completely to bringing her pleasure. This version of him – the one that's currently leaving bruises all over her body and biting at her tongue – is savage and cruel, and yet he's still driving her over the edge.

In her growing impatience she hooks one leg around his hip, her nails digging into his shoulders. She can feel him, hard and wanting against her center, can feel it in the harshness of his breath on her neck, in the way his hands are nearly crushing her bones.

"It's all Stiles's fault, you know," he rasps, licking at a trail of blood between her collarbones. "His pitiful obsession with you has made me want you."

She moans, digs her heel into the back of his thigh. "You poor, evil fox spirit," she jeers.

He raises his head. His lips – violently red and swollen – twist into a sneer. "I should tell you all about it. All those disgusting, perverse –"

"Shut up." She bites at his lower lip to keep him from talking, because, __oh__, she's been so good at compartmentalizing so far, so good at separating the two – bringing Stiles to the equation would be almost blasphemous; good, gentle Stiles with soft hands and loving eyes. The nogitsune growls, and his hands tighten on her hips, bringing her closer, then lifting her off the ground. She digs her nails harder into his shoulders and wraps both of her legs around him, her skirt rucked up around her waist.

She will be ashamed, later, for the lack of hesitation with which she reaches down to unbuckle his belt, or for the guttural sound she makes when he finally pulls her panties aside and thrusts into her. There is a frantic, white-hot urgency to their movements; he begins moving harder and faster, roughly snapping his hips into hers. Lydia bites at the inside of her mouth to stop herself from screaming and digs her heels into his back. She can hear his breath – coming in harsh, uneven gasps – and it makes her think of Stiles; makes her wonder if his face would look like this on the edge of completion – red, red lips and blazing amber eyes and teeth bared – and if he would make her throat raw from screaming with each thrust of his hips against hers.

And then she's coming, and she can't stop the noises, can't stop shaking and still greedily shoving down for more. Her vision goes white, and she can feel him loosing his rhythm, his thrusts uneven and so painfully hard, but she doesn't care (not yet). He follows, soon after, with his teeth pressed to her lips and blood on his tongue.

They stand there for what feels like eternity. Lydia's breathing is ragged, painful, warmth ghosting against his neck. Her legs are shaking when she puts them back on the ground and she's faintly aware that his hands are still pressed to her bruised hips, holding her upright.

"Now," he says, and an unwanted shiver runs through her body, "about that scream."


End file.
